Dark Nights
by Morgan72uk
Summary: The first war is over, but the shadows remain. What really happened between McGonagall and Dumbledore during the trials of the Death Eaters?
1. Night 1

A/N So - I've been ill. I've never had to stay off work for this long and I am more than a little stir crazy. It occurred to me a while ago (since I am now slowly on the mend) that this would be a good time to start posting Dark Nights - which I began writing some months ago.

It's pretty different to A Convenient Fiction - it's sort of a dark romance.

It was inspired by the flashbacks to the trials of the Death Eaters in GoF - and by what we know happened to them. That whole period reminded me a little of the terror following the French Revolution - which in turn inspired this story.

Finally - special thanks to Nerva for beta'ing.

Title: Dark Nights  
Author: Morgan72uk  
Rating: M

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, don't have any money.

**Dark Nights**

**Night One**

It was neither quiet nor still in the Headmaster's study. Instruments and magical gadgets were whirring and buzzing, the former Heads snored in their portraits and a golden bird fidgeted agitatedly on his perch; his too wise, too knowing eyes fixed intently on the woman standing in the doorway looking back at him.

It was not exactly a surprise that Fawkes was angry with her. He took affronts to the wizard he had adopted extremely seriously. He must known how angry she had been with Albus and now he was suspicious of her. Perhaps he was right to be suspicious.

Was she still angry with Albus? She was not exactly sure, but it was past time that they found out.

She had barely spoken to him for almost two months, scarcely spent any time alone with him since the night he had insisted on abandoning a baby to the care of people who would not ever give him the love he needed. They had not argued again, she hadn't given him the chance. Instead she had withdrawn, buried herself in work and brooding. Would she even be here now, she wondered, if Poppy had not been so insistent?

She could still hear the anguish in the mediwitch's voice, "for Merlin's sake Minerva, have you even looked at him recently? He's destroying himself!" And even then she had been reluctant to concede, murmuring that surely there was someone else who could talk to him. But Poppy had an answer to that as well. "We've tried, we've all tried. You're the only one left. Please try to get him to sleep, if nothing else."

So, now here she was, in the doorway of his study, watching him as he gazed out of the windows, certain that Poppy and everyone else had entirely mistaken her influence over him.

"Are you coming further into the room Minerva, or will you be remaining by the door?"

"I am uncertain of my welcome," she responded, not moving, refusing to be distracted by the rustling of Fawkes' feathers.

"Then why are you here?" When he turned to her she had to stifle a gasp and she no longer wondered why Poppy had demanded her intervention. How had she failed to notice just how incredibly tired and defeated he looked? How had she not seen that his power and energy had dimmed, that his eyes had lost the twinkle that had sustained so many of them in the last dreadful years? How had she not realised how desperately he needed comfort?

"It must be the Gryffindor in me," she responded lightly, "although at the moment this room feels like the lions den."

"Poppy asked you to come." It was not a question and he made no attempt to hide the bitterness in his voice.

"It was more of a demand." At last she moved further into the room, shivering in the gloom despite the fire blazing in the grate. "She's worried about you. And I have to concede she may have a point."

"I do not need to be taken care of, I am not a child!" His voice thundered, but she didn't flinch.

"Then what do you need, Albus?"

"To rest." The sudden storm of energy was gone as soon as it had come. The answer to her question was barely a whisper and suddenly she understood.

The war was over, Voldemort had vanished and the wizarding world was still celebrating. But the darkness had not left them yet. Dumbledore was Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot – a powerful and influential force within that august body. But he was just one man.

She already knew that he had, finally, succeeded in convincing the authorities that Severus Snape had turned spy against Voldemort, had risked his life to carry information to their side. The whole school was buzzing with the news of his release. It did not change what Snape had done, it did not make her trust him – but in the final analysis it was not Snape who had betrayed them.

"Have the hearings been so terrible?" She asked, already knowing what his answer would be.

"They're happening too quickly, with too little thought for the consequences. It's impossible to tell who was under the Imperius Curse and who was truly a Death Eater and, all the time, there are accusations. It's as though people have been swept away with the desire for vengeance. And I can't stop it."

Had they fought for this, she wondered? So they could put on show trials, condemn others on the word of murderers desperate to save their own skins? Who knew what any of them would say to avoid Azkaban and the Dementors? It was necessary to dispense justice, she understood that, but not like this; not in anger and chaos.

Albus could guide the process, attempt to bring order to it but he had to have the strength to do so. He had borne the weight of their world so often before, it seemed bitterly unfair to ask him to hold it once more. The years of war, the losses, had taken as much a toll on him as on anyone. But who else was there?

She took a breath, aware that she was about to step into the tempest, that he would fight her every step of the way – but completely determined that she would win.

A quick flick of her wand lit dozens of candles around the room; another brought the heavy burgundy drapes down to cover the windows. At once the room looked cosier and more inviting – except for the figure of melancholy at its heart.

"What are you doing?" he growled, even though it was entirely obvious. Another flick of her wrist, a muttered spell and a house elf popped into the room. Calmly she asked for some hot tea, soup and sandwiches. "I'm not hungry." She dismissed the house elf and turned to face the Headmaster, hands on her hips,

"When did you last actually have a meal?"

"I can't remember, yesterday perhaps." She was willing to bet that it had not been yesterday at all.

"Well, this evening you are going to eat, then you are going to sleep even if I have to feed you a potion myself. This stops now Albus."

"I have work to do, owls waiting for me. I can't just leave them."

"You can and you will." Her eyes met his. She poured all of her determination into her gaze until, at last, he spoke again.

"You're angry with me." His words were a broken whisper. She sighed; it would have been easier to face this conversation when she was sure he was stronger. Not that either of them were known for choosing the easy way.

"I have been – yes. But one doesn't cease to care about someone because you happen to disagree with them. If I could take some of the burden from you, I would. But I can't sit in your place at the Wizengamot; I can only do this. Won't you at least let me help you?"

The soft pop that heralded the return of the elf broke the moment. But something had shifted in Albus' mood because he allowed Minerva to lead him to the small table in front of the fire. He sat down heavily; as though his muscles ached and she wondered if she would be able to coax him into taking a bath.

The appetizing aroma of the soup wafted to them and she waited for it to work its magic. He resisted for a moment and then, with a few grumbles started to eat. Relieved she poured tea for both of them and watched him as she sipped her drink. Finally he pushed the bowl away and leant his head back, eyes closed.

"Better?" She asked, discarding her tea and moving to his side.

"A little, thank you."

"Do you want me to get you a potion for your headache?"

"Not yet – it may ease now that I have eaten." He opened his eyes in time to see her irritated expression; the headache had been a guess, but if he had fallen so easily for her trick he really must be exhausted. "That was very sneaky of you, Professor McGonagall."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Headmaster." She laid her hand on his shoulder, surprising herself at the gesture since neither of them were people who touched others lightly. She was the more reserved of the two – but not by much. When he did not move away, almost of their own volition her fingers started to rub lightly the tense muscles.

A soft sigh escaped him and her courage grew. Carefully she continued the massage, using both hands now, gently but firmly easing away knots – perfectly aware that they had stepped into new territory.

He spoke her name, half in question – but she lifted her hand from her task for long enough to glide her fingertips over his eyes, closing them.

"Rest for a while, I'll finish this, then run you a bath. You need to sleep Albus."

"I know."

He leaned into her touch and she continued until she was satisfied that his shoulders were looser. He was silent and she thought that perhaps he had succumbed to sleep. But as she lifted her hands away he said quietly,

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." It was her turn to be surprised when he grasped her wrist and drew her hand to his mouth. She was even more surprised when he pressed his lips, not to her knuckles as she had expected, but instead to the soft sensitive skin of the inside of her wrist.

She gasped, heat and sensation jolting through her body. It was impossible that anyone could have such an impact on her with one, gentle caress. But as he proved on a fairly regular basis the impossible was Albus Dumbledore's stock in trade.

His gaze was heated now; her knees suddenly became weak. A gentle tug brought her to perch on the arm of his chair; his hands cupped her face as he murmured her name huskily. They had never been so close and though there had been times when she had thought she'd witnessed a flicker of interest in his eyes, never before had he looked at her like this – with such open longing. Her body ached to take up him on the invitation in his eyes, but her brain knew it would not be wise.

His lips brushed gently against hers, gauging her reaction to him. She was sure her expression radiated how torn she was, how easily she could be persuaded to just melt into him. Instead, she let her sensible, cautious side prevail. She grasped his shoulders and pushed him back.

"I can't give you that kind of comfort Albus, even though I'm sure it's what you need."

"I thought we had already established that what I needed was you?" Surprised she let her fingers tangle in his beard, not really aware just how much she could come to enjoy having the freedom to touch him. "I'm sorry Minerva." His voice was gentle and sincere and she knew with absolute certainty that he was referring to their quarrel about what should happen to Harry Potter and not to their current circumstances.

"I'm sorry as well." She was apologising for the way she had treated him, for failing to notice how these past weeks had affected him. But she had no intention of apologising for disagreeing with him in the first place. Long ago they had agreed, at least tacitly, that she would tell him in no uncertain terms when she thought he was wrong.

"Stay with me?" It was a quiet request, made in a tone that expected her to reply in the negative. But with their foreheads resting together and the dark shadows still in his eyes the truth was she was finding it difficult to find a reason to refuse him. She told herself that one night would do little to chase away those shadows. She told herself that it was his need for comfort talking – that he did not, could not love her. She told herself that she would be hurt. And still it was not enough.

"If I stay will you sleep?"

"I'll try." She nodded, hands caressing his face again – allowing herself to take inventory of the familiar features.

"That's all I ask Albus, that's all any of us ask."

End Part 1


	2. Night 2

A/N - thanks for the reviews. And - just a reminder, frankly I'm not sure how 'dark' this fic really is - but it's certainly about a relationship that develops in a less than straightforward way.

**Night 2**

Minerva woke when she felt the settee she was lying on shift with the weight of another person. Gentle fingers stroked over her face and she opened her eyes to find Albus gazing down at her.

"You're waiting for me." There was too much wonder in his voice for her not to notice and, after all, it was an accurate description of what she'd been doing. Her marking had been finished some time ago and it had taken a very short internal debate to decide to curl up in front of the fire in his study to await his return. "Don't move," he whispered, "I need to touch you to convince myself that you really are here."

Two nights earlier, in a halting, broken voice he had asked her to stay with him and, to both their surprise, she had agreed. Though she had recognised his invitation was to do more than sleep, he had actually been too exhausted to do anything other than hold her.

It had been slightly awkward, to curl up in a large bed with another person, after years of sleeping alone. It had been emotionally draining to curl up with Albus, whose barriers had been brought down by need. But she had talked to him softly, stroking his hand where it rested on her stomach, until the change in his breathing had told her he had fallen asleep.

She'd woken to his caress the next morning. It still been early, light barely creeping into the room. She'd wanted to tell him to go back to sleep but his tentative, wandering touch had robbed her of the power of speech. His lips had followed in the wake of his hands, persuading her that she really wasn't sleepy. He'd divested her of the night-clothes she'd transfigured for herself the night before and then proved to her that in his long, but scarcely misspent life he had learnt a great deal about making love.

Despite this it hadn't exactly been perfect. They'd both been nervous. He'd touched her as though he feared she would vanish and she was far too tense to let go completely. There had been too many years since she'd last been with a man and the heightened emotions from the evening resounded around them, scarcely making for a relaxed and sensual coming together. Instead there had been desperation in the way they had moved, in the way they had grasped hands and arched their bodies.

She'd held him afterwards, murmured words of reassurance as they lay in a riot of pillows and bed covers. Everything she had thought she knew about their friendship had been destroyed in the wake of passion and need. He had slept again – she had not.

He'd looked, not better when she'd left him that morning, but at least more rested. When she arrived for breakfast he was already there, but the look of relief Poppy shot her had been enough to tell her that she wasn't the only one to notice the difference.

An owl had reached her later, his distinctive scrawl informing her that the Wizengamot were in session and he didn't expect to return to Hogwarts until the next day. It was entirely proper for the Headmaster to keep his Deputy informed of his whereabouts. He had asked nothing of her, made no personal request. But she was here anyway and one look at his face told him that her decision to wait for him had been the right one.

She lifted her hands and ran them over his face – his skin was soft, but the lines and wrinkles spoke of his age and, combined with the tiredness in his eyes, she was worried about him again.

"Tell me," she said softly, "it will help."

"I don't want you to share my nightmares."

"They'll wake me anyway." Neither of them commented on her pledge that she would be sleeping beside him, but he brushed his lips over her fingers in response. "I've seen terrible things already Albus,"

"I know," she pulled him down beside her and pressed a kiss onto his brow. It was only a matter of time before he found the words.

"Karkaroff gave evidence yesterday. He named several people as Death Eaters – including Severus Snape though his acquittal will stand. But then Karkaroff named Barty Crouch Junior." It was not what she had been expecting to hear. She had no liking for Barty Crouch, though his methods were admired and his influence had been great during the war. Up until this moment she had assumed he would become Minister of Magic soon. But she had always known that his attempts to fight fire with fire would be dangerous. She believed the methods he had advocated to seek out those who had supported He Who Must Not Be Named were what had brought the current madness down upon them. And now that madness had struck at the man who had tried to control it.

"What will happen?"

"The boy confessed and was sentenced straight away – life in Azkaban."

Albus' eyes were haunted again. She had no illusions that she could offer him more than a fragment of comfort, but until they were free of this darkness the fragment would have to suffice. She shuddered a little at the thought that such a time might never occur and turned her face to his; blindly seeking his lips with her own as though they could anchor each other amidst the tumult.

He breathed her name as his fingers unfastened her robes, seeking skin, already knowledgeable about how to arouse her. "I've dreamt of this," he murmured against her throat and she couldn't decide if the words made her happy or sad.

They made love in front of the fire. More gently this time and with a depth that had been lacking before. She moved above him, carefully, slowly; watching as shadows flickered across his face. Afterwards she lay beside him as he pressed gentle kisses across her face. Her hand was splayed on his chest; she could feel the thumping of his heart, a tangible proof that he lived, that he was mortal. Even now, with their bodies tangled together, glowing in the aftermath of lovemaking she could feel the lingering darkness, waiting to consume them.

"It will destroy his parents," Albus said, returning to the subject of Barty Crouch Junior. "His mother is ill already and though Barty has cast him off, people will view him as guilty by association. They'll say he should have known his son was a death eater. And, perhaps if he'd spent more time at home…"

"It isn't that simple. He was here at Hogwarts for 7 years, and we didn't suspect. We could have done something, tried to reach him – we weren't expecting him to betray us." Her voice wavered and tears stung her eyes, they weren't talking about Crouch Junior any longer – or not just Crouch.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. There were no words left, nothing either of them could say to offer reassurance. They couldn't promise that it would be all right, there was no guarantee of that.

"We should try to get some sleep," she said at last.

Summoning a blanket from a nearby chair she pulled it over their rapidly cooling bodies. Sinking into his embrace she reminded herself that this was about giving him comfort, not about seeking it for herself. It was unfortunate that her body did not seem to understand this distinction.

Over the last two days she had come to realise that her feelings for him were very complicated and at the same time profoundly simple. She wanted to believe that this was about two friends, comforting each other, making love because that was what they needed and still retaining their friendship. But she knew that if she admitted to herself how she really felt about him, it would become a hundred times more difficult.

The fire had dwindled to embers, the room had lost much of its residual heat and her back was protesting a night spent sleeping on the floor. But that wasn't what had woken her.

Albus' moans were indistinct – but he was twisting around beside her, clearly in the grip of unpleasant dreams. She heard a crack and then another and realised that his distress was affecting his magic, which in turn was breaking some of the instruments in the room.

He was moving too much for her to hold onto and she baulked at using a spell to send him back to sleep. Instead she shook him gently,

"It's just a dream, it's OK – Albus, you're safe." He woke abruptly, eyes wide with horror, whether from the vestiges of his dream or from having betrayed himself she couldn't tell. She watched as he sat up, taking a couple of steadying breaths.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb your rest, I shouldn't have let you stay."

"This isn't the first nightmare you've had recently," she said, scarcely needing him to confirm her surmise. She sat as well, the blanket dipped to reveal her nudity and with a shaking hand he wrapped it back around her. "Let's go to bed, I'm too old to sleep on the floor all night."

His expression wavered and suddenly she feared that he would insist she return to her own bed. Instead he breathed a spell and the blanket became a dressing gown, which she pulled on. He reached for one of his robes, discarded earlier in their haste and together they ambled to his bedchamber.

She paused, feeling awkward – an absurd feeling given that they had just made love in front of the fire, a far more intimate act. But Albus reached for her – burying his head in her hair and tumbling them both into the soft mattress. They settled themselves, his hand on her hip, her head on his shoulder – so easy the way their bodies fit together, so quickly becoming used to this closeness. And neither of them had made any attempt to talk about what was happening between them.

"I can't stop it," he said, "I can't stop the accusations, the torture, the sentences without the benefit of a trial. I fear innocent people will be swept into this madness." She hadn't asked him about his nightmare – but she knew he was telling her anyway.

"You think Crouch's son innocent?"

"No, I'm sure he was a Death Eater. His hands are not clean, he deserves to be punished for his actions."

"And he will be," she shivered at the thought of Azkaban, "if they had defeated us they would have destroyed all who opposed them – with little thought to justice, or trials."

"All that stands between us and them is the differences in how we behave, I won't allow us to lose sight of that now. But, people are still going to die."

There was little to dispute in his analysis, so she tightened her grip on him and dismissed all thoughts of raising the question of their recent activities. It was a long time since she had received or given comfort – it would have to be enough to sustain them through the dark nights they had yet to face.

TBC


	3. Night 3

A/N - thanks for the reviews.

**Night 3**

The castle was blanketed in the first heavy snowfall of the winter and her footsteps echoed through the unusually silent corridors. The students were huddled in groups, quietly reading the Daily Prophet; today no one was interested in snowball fights or games outside.

All around her were faces of those who had seen or heard too much, students who carried fear with them as easily as they carried their textbooks. Their eyes lifted from the newspaper as she passed and she knew that they were reading details of her own testimony.

For a split second she was back in the courtroom, the full Wizengamot seated around her as she gave her evidence in clear, clipped tones – always the teacher, even in this. Albus' presence in the court-room had been an anchor, although she was careful not to look at him too often or for too long. The events she described had happened while their friendship had been at its most strained and they had never discussed that night.

She'd been careful not to embellish or speculate; though the scene she described hardly needed exaggeration to be gruesome - it was already the stuff of nightmares. She recounted how she'd entered the house while the dark mark still burned above it, how with others she had dealt with the aftermath of the attack. It had been her sharp hearing that led her to the missing boy, eventually. She had been the one to draw him out of his makeshift hiding place, alerted by his quiet whimpers.

Little in the way of cross-examination had followed – a fact that was enough to disturb her. And then she'd been asked, almost as though it were a routine matter, if she had any evidence or suspicions about the identity of Death Eater's who had not been detained so far.

It would have been so easy, in that moment, to give names, to voice suspicions, to accuse others with no real evidence to substantiate her claims. As a close ally of Albus Dumbledore her stock in the wizarding world was high, she could have rid herself of enemies, gained revenge for real or perceived slights, destroyed lives – all with just a few words.

She shivered now at that memory, feeling as though the madness had reached out and touched her. It's ghostly fingertip running down her spine. She had politely declined to enter into groundless speculation, but now at least she had seen first hand what Albus had been fighting against in these last, desperate weeks.

While accusations flew around their world – both whispered and spoken aloud, he had to find a way to ensure the innocent were protected and the guilty punished. People had been afraid for so long, suspicion had lived amongst them like a neighbour and that was coming to a head now. As more people claimed they had been victims of the Imperius curse, more accusations were made. Those under suspicion used accusations like smoke screens, casting doubt all around them, while those who had lost family and loved ones demanded justice. Somewhere in all of that it seemed to matter less and less that those who were punished were actually guilty.

But Albus was back now, the sentence decided upon. It would be announced tomorrow in open court but her aim was to hear it from him first.

When she entered the study he was standing at the Pensieve. He straightened as he saw her; the last remnants of the silvery liquid dripped from his wand before he set it aside. They gazed at each other for a long, still moment as the events of the day crashed around them. Did he move first, or did she? Did it matter?

They met in the centre of the room, clinging together, their lips meeting hungrily, hands clasping and caressing urgently. In those first moments she recognised that there was nothing gentle or loving about their embrace.

But the urgency abated as quickly as it has come – their touches became languid and tender, as though having sought mutual reassurance that they were both still in one piece they could afford to slow down a little.

She didn't protest when he scooped her into his arms and carried her to his bed. As he laid her on the heavy coverings she could see the need in his eyes, was certain that it was reflected in her own. But she knew that in this moment neither of them could find the words to express that need. She abandoned any intention of articulating how she felt, allowing his touch to block out all of the fear and anger from earlier. It was a relief to dwell only in sensation; to think only about the way her body responded to his, about what they could give each other.

Afterwards they lay together, bodies still entangled, hardly noticing that they were still touching each other. She couldn't help thinking there was something self-indulgent and decadent about lying naked in the Headmaster's bed while the rest of the school was in the Great Hall. She said as much to Albus, who only chuckled and carried on stroking his hand along the exposed length of her spine – which apparently he found extremely absorbing.

It was still snowing outside and despite her over-developed sense of responsibility she was not even slightly tempted to give up the warmth and comfort of her current position. Although she thought she might try to persuade her companion to summon some food quite soon.

They hadn't talked about the day's events but she knew they would get to it sooner or later. Seeking oblivion in each other would only work for so long. Despite this she was surprised when Albus raised the subject, and by the way he did it.

"I had no idea you were there that night, the first I knew of it was when I saw your name on the witness list."

"Alastor knew,"

"It wasn't in his report – I knew someone had found the boy, not who."

"We weren't exactly communicating with each other then."

"No, we weren't." She glanced over at him and half thought about asking him if he thought they were doing any better now. But the moment passed.

He splayed his hand on the middle of her back and said quietly, "they were sentenced to life in Azkaban." She stiffened at his words and his touch immediately became soothing. He'd obviously been expecting her to either be upset or angry or both, but she wasn't sure when this had become about comforting her. That wasn't how it had started out at all.

"Too influential for the kiss I suppose," was her comment.

"Always so cynical Professor McGonagall."

"But not wrong?" The humour dropped from his face and the shadows returned. She bit her lip and wished she had it in her to be kinder to him at times like these.

"No, not in this instance. Bellatrix and Rodolphus made no attempt to defend themselves. They were proud of what they'd done, of how much loyalty they showed. But, Alice and Frank weren't killed."

"They're being moved to a long-term ward at St Mungo's," she said flatly. "I spoke to Augusta today." It wasn't a conversation she was keen to dwell upon, but it had been necessary somehow.

"How's the child – Neville?"

"Withdrawn," he slid down in the bed and pulled her into his arms. Surprising herself she didn't protest as he held her close and, after a moment she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. After a while she shifted a little in his arms, "I don't agree with death sentences, but the Wizengamot has given them to 'his' supporters – why hold back now?"

"You already know the answer to that." And she did; Bellatrix and Rodolphus might be unrepentant in their support for He Who Must Not Be Named – even going so far as to torture the Longbottoms to gain information about his whereabouts following his disappearance – but they had families whose vestiges of influence had surely saved their lives.

"It's so unfair, for them to have come through the war and then, just as everyone was starting to feel safer…"

"I knew there were Death Eaters still as large, I should have made sure people stayed alert."

"It wasn't your fault," his expression didn't alter and she reached up to cup his cheek with her hand and repeated the words. "It wasn't your fault." They stared at each other for a long moment, until at last he looked away.

"I voted for a life sentence," he said quietly. Clearly he expected her to be angered by this, but he had acted according to his conscience – to be angry wasn't appropriate somehow.

"You would have done that even if the rest of the Wizengamot wanted a death sentence."

"I would."

"Then don't be sorry." He slid his hand along her back, his expression far away as he seemed to be contemplating what she had said.

"Do you want something to eat?" He asked at last, "I thought supper by the fire, perhaps a game of chess?"

"That would be nice."

But when he started to get up she found she didn't want to let him go. So she pulled him back to her, kissing him gently until he responded. Too clever, too knowing hands roamed her body and thoughts of food, chess games, a quiet evening in front of the fire slipped away.

He lifted his lips from her body for long enough to ask softly, "again?" She felt powerful in that moment, knowing she could grant him what he desired the most. Her body responded, arching against him. His eyes slid shut and just before he kissed her she whispered the answer to his question.

"Still."

TBC


	4. Night 4

I didn't mean for it to take me so long to finish - but apparently I have to be in a certain frame of mind to write this story. I'd like to thank my sister and brother in law for helping me to get there!

Also, there is a line that I stole from HBP - it seemed appropriate.

**Night 4**

Normally Minerva McGonagall was scathing in her criticism of people who neglected their work, who allowed themselves to be distracted by other matters. But, she had to confess, just at the moment the idea of marking 2nd year transfiguration essays didn't hold much appeal. Which explained why they were lying in an unruly pile on her desk.

Her study windows afforded her an excellent view of the Quidditch pitch – but as she gazed out of them for once she wasn't reflecting on the fortunes of her House team, her thoughts were far darker.

"Minerva," it was rare that someone was able to creep up on her. She had sharp senses which had served her well during the war, during two wars in fact. Reconnaissance was so much easier when you were small, fleet of foot and could move around without attracting too much notice.

But her senses had failed her on this occasion and, as she turned to face Albus she realised that he had been standing in the doorway, watching her, for quite a while. He didn't speak at first, instead his gaze travelled across the room, coming to rest at last on the teacups set out on the table before the fire. Still he did not comment, although she didn't imagine he needed her to tell him who her visitor had been.

"I'm sorry I missed Remus," he said, his tone deceptively mild. "How is he?"

She spent a moment deciding how to answer that, not sure she had words to describe the shattered man she had spent the last few hours with. Despite this she knew she wanted to talk to Albus, share some of the pain and the distress with someone who understood, even if doing so would not particularly ease her burden.

"He's going away – out of the country, away from everyone who knows him. I managed to persuade him to contact me from time to time, let me know how he is."

"Do you think he will, or was it something he said just to reassure you?"

"I think he'll try," she almost wished that he was right, that he had just been trying to placate her. But Remus clearly did not have the energy to make promises he had no intention of keeping just so she would feel better. "I'm worried about him, where he'll go, what he'll do."

"We must allow him to find his own way – he has great ability."

"I don't doubt that – I'm just not sure he has the motivation. He's lost everyone Albus, I don't know what there is to prevent him from just crawling away to die."

"You taught him better than that." Her laughter in response to this was too harsh, too bitter and far too revealing. She saw his face change and he took hurried steps towards her, reaching her side just as she said,

"Under the circumstances you'll forgive me if I have some doubt about the impact of my teaching." He didn't answer, which was almost as disconcerting as what he did instead, drawing her into his arms, and holding her. She wanted to capitulate, to sink into his embrace, let his touch sooth her. But she resisted. Her need was too great; the conversation with Remus had used the last of her reserves of strength and left her feeling hollow. She didn't want to risk needing anyone this much – not even him.

Albus showed no signs of withdrawing, he was just continuing to hold her, patiently offering warmth and a sense of security she had scarcely been aware of lacking.

At last, he murmured a complicated privacy spell and finally, assured that they would not be seen or overheard, she allowed herself to relax.

Carefully she curled her fingers into the front of his robe as her head came to rest on his chest. This was the way she understood them – in private, behind closed doors.

She had known there would be no escape from this day – but still she hadn't wanted to face it. Her thoughts had been dwelling on the past for hours, particularly on a conversation that had taken place years ago – after the Sorting Hat had placed both the first werewolf to attend Hogwarts and the youngest scion of the noble House of Black, into Gryffindor.

There had been something ironic about the fact that having spent all summer making plans to accommodate Remus, the moment the Sorting was over everything had become about Sirius. His parents had wasted no time at all in letting the school know how unhappy they were with the situation.

"Do you remember after their Sorting?" She asked quietly and, if he wondered what path her thoughts had taken in order to arrive at that particular destination he did not show it.

"I remember our conversation very well. I still believe the Hat chose wisely; that you were the best possible person to guide Sirius, to help him chose a different path."

She remembered that she'd had serious doubts about his reasoning – but actually there had been method in what she was strongly tempted to call his madness. Even as a first year Sirius had been egotistical and headstrong. He had all of the arrogance of his family, just with a different set of standards about whom he felt he was superior to. But she had been raised in very similar circumstances and she could summon at will the icy, condescending tone he had undoubtedly become familiar with throughout his childhood.

Never before had she considered that being a member of an old, pure-blooded family would become part of her teaching strategy. She wondered if Albus had ever thought about how much she hated having to use the life she had abandoned in that way. Or, if in some obscure part of his mind he had determined that she might feel better if she could see some use for the upbringing she had loathed.

Did any of it matter anymore since they had both been wrong about Sirius? There was precious little comfort to be gained from the knowledge that unlike James, Lily and poor Peter they had both lived to be aware of their mistake.

"I'm sorry that I failed you." She pushed herself away from him, not wanting to see his expression in response to her words. She knelt before the fire, using the poker savagely until gentle hands removed it from her grasp and she knew Albus had followed her. He held her chin in his hand, gazing into her eyes as he spoke the words.

"You didn't fail me, you never have. We were all wrong about him Minerva, none of us believed he could be guilty of a betrayal of that magnitude." He let go of her while she struggled to find a response, the intensity of the moment gone so rapidly she almost thought she'd imagined it.

He settled in a chair beside her, but she couldn't bring herself to move. The flames were far safer – especially since she knew that the conversation they had begun was far from over.

"I've been at the Ministry all afternoon. The Minister is determined that Sirius be sent to Azkaban – for life. He thinks that he is too dangerous and unstable for a trial."

"And I suppose he can just arrange that?"

"He can. I won't pretend I'm not disturbed by the prospect – but he has also given his word that it will be the last time it happens. In the morning he will announce that Crouch is being transferred to another department. The remaining Death Eaters in custody will be tried – but without the hysteria and accusations, their trials will be conducted according to the rules of evidence."

So, that was the arrangement that he and the Minister of Magic had come to. She wasn't sure how she felt about it, but could she honestly say that in his place she would have done differently?

"Then it's over, you've stopped it."

"Only by agreeing to his plans for Sirius – was I wrong Minerva?" She turned her head to look at him; did he really want her to answer that? For a long moment there was silence as she considered what he had done – and why.

Though she had been dreading it, it was hard to reconcile herself to the idea that Sirius wouldn't be tried for his actions – that there would be no public reckoning. On the other hand, in a society still fragile in the aftermath of war, the damage and frenzy his trial could cause was incalculable. She knew that Albus wanted to believe he had acted for the greater good – and perhaps that had been his motivation, but there had been sacrifices along the way – and it would not help Albus if she were to pretend otherwise.

"Was there anything you could have done to change the Minister's mind?" she asked at last.

"I could have gone to the Daily Prophet, or perhaps used the Imperius curse." Both of these were clearly not options.

"Then, what you did was to use a decision that had already been made, to end something that we both know was out of control."

"You're letting me off the hook."

"No, I'm merely reminding you of the context. Albus, you refused the position of Minister of Magic, on several occasions. I've no doubt that you had your reasons, and because I know you, I'm sure the reasons were valid. But, because of that choice, this decision was not yours to make. You did what you could, you've hardly been sitting idly by, twiddling your thumbs."

"No, never that." She was startled when he knelt beside her and drew her into his embrace. Almost without realising it she felt her body curve into his – it was so easy already, so familiar.

"Will you be all right?" He asked softly.

"I have to be, there are examinations to prepare for." She was, at heart hideously practical – but he knew her well enough to make a soft sound of protest at her words, "I won't forget this, I can't forget it – but I want to take refuge in my work for a little while."

"The war isn't over." His words were breathed softly against her skin, almost as though he was afraid to speak them aloud. She started to ask him what he meant, but his hands moving across her body effectively robbed her of speech. Her head fell back and the same lips that had given his prophetic warning were now placing heated kisses across her neck and she knew there were, after all, things other than work to take refuge in.

* * *

His breath was warm on her neck, his arm draped over her hip, they were both gestures which should have given comfort and reassurance – but still she could not sleep. 

Albus slept heavily, like a man who had not rested easily for a while and who did not know when the opportunity would avail itself again. She was glad that she could give him that, but she knew that she would have to wake him – sooner or later. The Headmaster could not spend the night in her bed without the risk of someone finding out where he was and drawing from that information an entirely accurate conclusion about what was going on.

She slipped easily from his grasp, crossing the darkened room to pull a robe around her before retreating to a chair by the fire in her study. Her ghosts were restless tonight. James, Lilly – even Peter Pettigrew, their bones danced in her mind. Too many deaths, there had been too many deaths. The ghosts of the walking wounded haunted her too – Remus, the Longbottoms, students who would never grow up with their families around them. And then there were the tormentors, the guilty; Crouch, the Lestranges – Sirius.

She didn't doubt that Albus, with his formidable will and just a little manoeuvring, had prevented them from falling into the abyss. But at what cost – and for how long? The words he had whispered to her earlier held the heavy ring of truth – how long did they have before it started all over again?

"Minerva?" she followed the sound of his voice and found he was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, watching her – waiting. He'd pulled on his outer robe and she couldn't help but smile at how sleepy and crumpled he looked.

"What will become of us, Albus?" His eyes widened at her question, because she was asking about the two of them as much as she was asking about the fate of their world and all those they cared about.

"I can't answer that, the future takes care of itself, you know that." She didn't believe him and her expression must have made her scepticism very clear because he sighed, heavily. "He will return, there will be war and death – despite our best efforts." As soon as he spoke she wondered if she had been wise to draw the words from him, they were more real now, than when they had been breathed against her skin.

"And this?" She gestured between the two of them.

"I don't know." Had she heard him sound quite so uncertain about anything before? "The Governors would be most displeased if they were to find out, added to that the age difference is, considerable. I'm old and dangerous Minerva, not a promising combination in a lover."

There was nothing in what he had said that she could deny – and added to that he could be oblique and secretive, which she hated. This was scarcely a romance that had 'happy ever after' written all over it. Whatever lay between them she knew only that it was as complex as it was fragile. On that first night she had given, thinking only of his needs – and he had taken from her. But he had done so with care, taking only the comfort she was able to give. Perhaps he did not even realise that on subsequent nights she had taken comfort from him – tonight was proof enough of that.

In a messy, dangerous world it scarcely seemed possible that two wary, battered individuals could hold onto something that neither of them seemed willing or able to categorise. And yet, would it be harder to let it go?

She shivered, despite the warmth from the fire, and pulled her robe tighter around her. This was not the right time to remember how warm her bed was – especially with another person sharing it.

"I'm sure, given your vast knowledge of magic, you have a spell in your repertoire that would disguise your presence here - if you are worried about the Governors finding out."

"There is a spell," he tilted his head to one side, looking at her speculatively. "No one can find out Minerva, ever. It doesn't seem much to offer you." She thought about that, set it against all the things he had whispered to her over the nights they had spent together.

Albus was a man who wanted, without ever believing that what he wanted could be his. Darkness and danger surrounded him – for all that he was the great defender of the light. To draw closer to him was to risk being tarnished, but she knew it was foolish to believe that she lived in a world of moral absolutes, that there was good and evil – and nothing in between. Albus' struggles these last weeks were a salient reminder how easily people could concede all they had fought for. Surely there was no more complicated term than, 'for the greater good'.

He was waiting still, his expression guarded as he looked at her. He had told her very little about what he wanted; confined himself to issuing his warnings, leaving the choice up to her. She didn't think she could allow that.

"Albus, I need little from you – your friendship is the thing I cherish the most and, though from time to time we may disagree, I hope never to lose it. Anything more is, complicated and I have to admit that if we were discussing the beginning of something I am not sure I would take the risk. But this is not the beginning."

Still he was silent, and she thought perhaps that in his silence lay the answer she was seeking. That their relationship would proceed thus far, but no further – and despite all defences she had surrounded herself with, she knew it would not be enough. But then he whispered,

"Never doubt how much I need you, Minerva."

She uncurled herself from the chair and crossed the room to his side, until they stood together, close but not quite touching.

"I won't, if you promise to remember that I need you as well." He dipped his head in acknowledgement and then took her hand lifting it to his lips. She had no doubt that their bargain was sealed.

She saw now that the darkness would never entirely leave them – it was part of who they were. They had been touched by Tom Riddle as surely as if he had branded his mark into their arms. And, it was for them to determine how they lived with that darkness – cowering in its shadows or trying to bend it to their will. The choice was easy to make, but she knew that from now on, its consequences would challenge them.

This was where they were now, and though she still believed that happy ever after was not in their future, she would take whatever lay inbetween.

The End


End file.
